


Faithful

by taenia



Series: Ash [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, M/M, everything is still horrible, in which agriculture is a very thinly veiled metaphor for sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taenia/pseuds/taenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each nodding ear of corn shall be a gem upon his finger; every vine will be a fair and twisting wire. Upon bended knee I offer this craft; I expect nothing. I demand everything</p><p>A follow-up to Ash:  Celebrimbor in Barad-Dur while Annatar is off in Numenor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to Ash; just a quick character study of Celebrimbor remaining behind as a faithful steward while Annatar is busy sinking Numenor. Have I mentioned that I really love evil Celebrimbor? Because misguided idiots (who literally can't see the difference between murder and fertilizer any more) are just wonderful. 
> 
> Oh, and apparently Sauron likes to make beer. Sure, why not? Even dark lords need hobbies. Maybe he bought a kit.

Bone meal and blood grew this wheat, sprouting thick and golden over the plains.

I have eaten my enemies whole, baked into good bread; I have drunk them in my lover's fine, clear beer. The earth sprouts up and is renewed, life comes from ash, and from blood, and from the jellied marrow of my bones.

I have broken apart enough bodies to know what mine is made of. I have offered sinew to the shadow; I have given braided nerves to the flame. Shadow and flame passed over my gifts, yet the earth takes all, making good soil from these bloodied husks.

This farmer's craft is strange to me, yet it is not unfamiliar. I am a silver hammer upon this iron land; I shape it to adorn my lover's hand. Each nodding ear of corn shall be a gem upon his finger; every vine will be a fair and twisting wire. Upon bended knee I offer this craft; I expect nothing. I demand everything.

There is some part of me that sees this barren land the way that others do. Fire and smoke blur the air, and it would choke upon the vapors and the fumes, if the great magic did not preserve me.

But I am preserved, and new things blossom from the foul reek. I smell pollen on the air, I hear the rain beating upon glassy Núrnen. I have grown into this land, and it has become a part of me in turn; I built up its towers with my blood and sweat, laid down the unshakeable foundations of my love.

My gift has gone to the sea. He is fled from me, courting a mortal man, while I remain here, his faithful lieutenant. And whether he departs from me for one year, or for a hundred, still I shall faithfully tend his fields, sowing and reaping, and sowing again, with blood, with bone, and with shit and sweat, too.

I am imperishable, and my promises are renewed by every storm.

And every year, the wheat hungers in our thin soil. We will gift to it our flesh, unto the breaking of the world.

Until it runs dry, I will drink my lord's pale beer, his dark wine. And I will give silent prayers to the dark, and to the ice, and most of all, I will pray to the fire, begging for the safe return of that which was given me.

Returning, he will grace me with pearls from the sea, and with magic stripped from the raw flesh of over-proud men.

For I never could resist his mickle craft.


End file.
